


I Know That he's Mine

by thegreatandpowerfultoaster



Series: Reader Inserts [13]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/M, Just in general. The sitation. They dont get to actually do anything, No Sex, Nude Modeling, Painting, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24735466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatandpowerfultoaster/pseuds/thegreatandpowerfultoaster
Summary: "I...might've heard that you painted me. Could I...see it?"He grins, surprisingly enough, such a sudden change from how annoyed he had been only a moment ago, and then nods.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sander Cohen/Reader
Series: Reader Inserts [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1124208
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm re-posting all my previous reader-inserts separately as to more accurately tag their content! So if you've seen this before, that's why.
> 
> If you want to request another fic, you can find me @goodmorningaperture on tumblr.

She was a violinist, and she only played for Cohen because there was nowhere else to play in Rapture, and one had to make a living somehow. Elizabeth, the Songbird was a good friend, and maybe the only one (Y/N) had in this place as it slowly fell apart.

Elizabeth was 'closer' to Cohen then she was, although that was clearly not a choice she had made herself. And that meant Elizabeth knew something that (Y/N) wouldn't hear from Raptures rumor mill, about herself.

"He's painted you," she says as they're both sitting backstage one night, waiting for their turns. (Y/N) tells her that she downy believe her, but after only a month Elizabeth is one of his disciples, so she would know these things, wouldn't she? "A few of them looked...comprising at best."

Oh, how lovely. People had noted the artists debauchery before. That and she'd heard what some of his other disciples had to say on that subject. The easiest course of action, of course would be to ignore that she had told her at all and move on hoping that he painted all the violinists in...what was it? 'Comprising' positions?

Another part of (Y/N) was morbidly curious. Why her, exactly? She'd even ask Cohen himself, just...without telling Elizabeth. (Y/N) didn't ask about the man she had been following, the private eye, and Elizabeth didn't need to get into her business.

Elizabeth was called onto the stage first, of course performing "You Belong to Me" as she did every night, but then going into some happier things and of course "Beyond the Sea", which she was far too fond of. She was next, of course and took a little longer than usual to begin.

It was harder to focus tonight. Normally so many people looking at her wasn't a problem, but tonight it was hard. She was lucky to be done after two songs, and although the applause wasn't quite what it was usually, it could've mattered less to her at this point.

Elizabeth had disappeared, perhaps to follow that PI she's always so concerned with. It doesn't matter, another night is done and she has decided suddenly that she can talk to one Sander Cohen in the morning. After all, he was nowhere to be seen while she was on stage and-

Oh. There he was, and looking furious, at that. "Ms. (L/N) would you mind telling me EXACTLY what that was back there?" She doesn't answer, and not because she doesn't know. Its also pressing pretty hard on her that he's got at least one painting of her, probably hanging up in his suite. He grows angrier when she doesn't reply. "Do you value this job at all?"

Its a strange question but she supposed the answer was yes, being that it kept her afloat here even if it was stressful some days. "I do, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again, I just-"

Just what, exactly? Cohen asks (Y/N) the same thing. The morbid curiosity is back and she's not sure what to makes of it. At least not when he's right here in front of her. "You're usually one of my best performers, but tonight..."

"I...might've heard that you painted me. Could I...see it?"

He grins, surprisingly enough, such a sudden change from how annoyed he had been only a moment ago, and then nods. Soon enough, they're standing in his suite and she sees it.

Sees them. Actually. There's two. The other paintings here are all abstract, or of the stage and she isn't sure how to take that until he begins talking. It's more of a purr, really. "You make a fine muse Ms. (L/N) I must admit. And I don't show just anyone my paintings, as its a...lesser known medium of mine."

The first painting is about what (Y/N) had been expecting. A rather tasteful nude, and although her figure was not quite what it was in reality, for never having seen her posed, it was good. She sits straight in the painting, her eyes glazed over, not in lust but just without a care.

It probably should've creeped her out more than it did. If anything, she felt appreciated, and certain that nobody else had ever tried to paint her. And Cohen was without a doubt a master artist. If she was his muse, then she couldn't complain.

The one above her now has her nude again, same figure that isn't quite hers, but her intestines (is that what they are?) Have been pulled from her stomach and painted a lovely shade of pink. For a moment (Y/N) wonders how much this appeals to him, but she thinks she gets it, at least a little. Dark blood spills from the painted wound and she wonders if its paint. Paint would be more practical, really when it dried at least. If so, then who's blood?

He seems to be trying to gage her reactions, but without much luck judging my his slightly frustrated look. "Well?" He asks finally. "You haven't said a word and I'm waiting terribly patiently." At least he hasn't shrieked at her again.

The part of her that's logical tells her it isn't normal to find a sick sort of joy in seeing these, but another, deeper part of her feels the warm pit growing in the bottom of her belly and doesn't want it to stop there.

"Why me, of all people?" Its the first thing that she can force out but she's quick to amend it. "I can't imagine I'm a very good muse." Its not meant to be rude of course but words aren't her specialty. Music is so much easier to express through, far easier than words.

He's not fuming again, maybe he's still a bit annoyed. Cohen takes a step towards her and (Y/N) takes a step back and she soon finds herself against a wall, shaking because she's nervous, and likely rightly so.

His large, soft hand finds her cheek and gently cups it, exept then his thumb begins to dig into her throat. Then he leans in, so close that she can smell his cologne mixed with the almost clean smell of paint and oil. "You," he inhales sharply. "You are a finer muse than anyone I have found. Can you not see it, you foolish girl?"

Now, (Y/N) has plenty of things to say on that matter, some very self depreciating, a few vey snarky about the things he gets off too. But none will come out, and the pit in her stomach is feeling heavier by the minute so all she can do is wimper slightly.

And then he stops, and looks at her for a minute like she's actually as lovely as his paintings and she realizes something. She's very, very wet. And the way he's looking at her isn't helping. Cohen sidesteps and dramatically places a hand out, gesturing towards the bed. "This way, darling. Lie down, and then strip."

She does, as its such a pleasing, straightforward request and closes her eyes waiting for whatever's next. When her thirst is never sated, and his big, soft hands don't touch her again, she opens her eyes, to see Cohen smiling brightly and painting.

Painting her, again. It wasn't what she was expecting, or wanting even. (Y/N) sighs under her breath and sits patiently until he's mostly done, not wanting to anger him after already having done so at least twice tonight. The entire situation is...frustrating to say the least.

She goes home, as soon as she's able because "I've got to preform in the morning" is as good of an excuse as any especially where Sander Cohen is involved. She brushes up against him as she's heading for the door. Maybe its a little bit petty but she's suffering, alright?

The glint in his eye tell her that he knows exactly what he's just put her through, and she gets the idea to lean close, the way he had when she'd been backed up against the wall and whisper. "May I come back?"

He nods. "I'm certain that I can arrange a time for us to meet. Oh, but it may be some time, I'm a very busy man." Of course he is.

* * *

(Y/N) is sitting beside Elizabeth again, who's smoking a cigarette and not paying too much attention. If she's being honest, though she's not paying too much attention to anything, either.

But then her friend looks her up and down. "Don't tell me you went to Cohen." Is she really that much of a mess right now?

Of course she tries and changes the subject. "Yeah, I did. And you went to folow that detective again, I'm sure we both had interesting nights." Her big, blue eyes blink once or twice as though she didn't belive it.

"You fucked Sander fucking Cohen, didn't you!" Chimes in another voice from nearby. She sighs because she didn't want this getting out, or taken the wrong way. Its Finnegan, because who else. She sure wished she had, if it counted for anything.

"No, I didn't." She huffs. "And if you tell anyone that I'll tell them exactly what I caught you and Rodriguez doing on the piano last week, alright?"

He was about to reply when Cohen's voice cut through back stage. "Ms. (L/N) I believe we have some things we need to discuss!" Finnegan snickered and muttered something under his breath, Elizabeth simply raised an eyebrow.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

“Shh!” Someone drunkenly hisses. Her head is still on the table so she can’t see, but its quite obviously Rodregez. “Do you hear that?” The entire table quiets to a level (Y/N) hadn’t thought possible, being that when sober, Cohen’s disciples were not quiet. When drunk…things tended to get out if hand.

She hadn’t been explicitly asked to babysit by anyone, but it was just for the best. If she brought a book along, it wasn’t even a waste of an evening. It was a common occurrence and a greats way to ensure that things didn’t get too far out of hand.

Everyone was still listening intently. (Y/N) heard nothing but the buzz of the bar and maybe the faint sound of a smooth jazz song being played closer to the front of the venue. “What? What is it?”

The four men simultaneously missed her and she sighed loudly and put her head up to peer around. There, she saw something unexpected. None other than Sander Cohen himself stood at the bar, speaking to the bartender in what appeared to be rather heated conversation. She knew from personal experience that it could mean nothing good, of course but her attention was caught. Him, here? Whatever for?

That was most definitely what they were all looking so intently at, at least. Finnegan was the first to speak up without being interrupted by a chorus of shushing. “Shit, I know what he’s doing here, he’s looking for us…I was supposed to be around for practice last night.”

“Well don’t drag us into it,” Cobb drawled. “Whatever you did, darling it’s on you.” But suddenly the other three realize almost the exact same thing as Finnegan had. And there was no way she way going to help them get away from it.

They were under contract (one far, far stricter than hers, being as (Y/N) was not one of his disciples, just a performer under his employ) and so they got whatever they deserved. How they all could miss scheduled events like that was beyond her, really. Cohen turned towards them, face red, presumably from yelling at the bartender. Fitzpatrick thought it necessary to yell, “Scatter!” And then in a sort of stampede of haphazardly used limbs, she was left alone at the table, a rather upset Cohen storming towards her.

He seemed slightly confused as he approached the table, although he quickly hid it well. She was left sitting there, looking up at him, and moving to close her book. “Ah - good evening, I suppose. Would you like to sit?”

They’re both perfectly aware of why he’s here and (almost unfortunately, she finds herself thinking) its not for the pleasure of her company, so there’s no use in the formalities but she finds herself using them anyways. “Good evening miss (L/N). You haven’t happened to have seen my disciples around, would you?”

Cohen’s tone suggests that he knows the answer as well as she does, and yet he still bothers to ask. “I think you might’ve just missed them,” she replies dryly. “Don’t know where they went, though.” He huffs, his shoulders relaxing although he still seems annoyed.

Although his eyes roll slightly and his lip curls up, still a bit angry, he sits across the table from her. “Of course you don’t. Nobody seems to know, always gone, always running. Its ridiculous.”

Her first thought is that he shouldn’t have hired such ridiculous people, then but she knows its best to just let him go on for as long as he sees fit. Although lately that seems to be getting longer and longer, she doesn’t especially mind. He’s smart in his own odd way. Smart might not be the right world for it. Enticing, she decides, sounds much better. “It is,” she agrees because they are. “To be fair, they all sounded…ah…rather sorry about missing whatever it was.”

Cohen scoffs. “Don’t play games with me, Ms. (L/N) I heard most of their absurd chatter from very far away. But what are you doing, this lovely evening, playing mommy to a group of grown men?”

‘Lovely Evening’ was more of a figure of speech than anything, she decided. He wasn’t so bad when he was in a good mood, or when he was away from his work.

Maybe she’d write a piece for him on her violin and call it that. But she wouldn’t show him, of course. Not like he’d shown her the paintings of her (a part of her shivered slightly thinking about the somewhat repressed memory) but nonetheless it would be there, an imperfect ode to her feelings, and to those paintings where half of her poured out onto a canvas in a mess of reds and pinks and greys. (Y/N) took a moment to think that she’d be damn lucky if her intestines looked half as good as they did in the painting in his suite.

And that might’ve been the strangest thing she’d ever thought about, but it sort of just fit how Sander Cohen made her feel. Fuzzy, like her internal organs might fall out and she’d enjoy it, and like he was perfect.

Wait, had he asked her something? Oh yes. Why she was here. “I offered to get everyone home after they drank to their hearts content. Just figured if I’m going to be reading all night anyways, might as well ensure the safety of my favorite coworkers,” (emphasis on favorite, of course being that they were were not) “while doing so.”

She’s given a slight humming noise for a response and then, “Well, now that seems to be out of the way, you’ll be alone for the evening?” Even the blatant flirting is getting to her now. (Y/N) internally scolds herself for being so desperate, although maybe she should’ve thought this through.

And then again, its not like their last attempt at flirting ended up all that satisfying, with her sitting on his settee incredibly hot and wanting, eyes closed and waiting to be touched, only to look up and find that he was only painting her.

“Yes.” Her mouth is moving of its own accord, it seems. If she had any sense at all she’d stop now, get up and leave, maybe swear a couple times and quit her job, get a new one at the fisheries, one where her boss hasn’t seen her in the nude, much less painted her the way he has. But she has none, so she keeps going. “I don’t suppose a busy man like you would also be free?”

Something absolutely wicked flashes in his gaze. Something hungry, and despite the fact that she should be nervous, all she feels is a shock down her spine and in her stomach. “Mmm…I suppose I could spare a few hours for you, darling (Y/N). Perhaps we could adjourn to someplace more quiet.”

She expects him to continue with a sly comment about how he really wouldn’t mind being caught, but it never comes. However he stands with a sort of dramatic flair and takes her wrist and she can only watch as Rapture flies by her as she’s pulled along and suddenly she’s back in her suite, standing in the doorway.

(Y/N) takes the collar of his shirt and jerks him to face her. “No more teasing,” she says firmly. Cohen smiles innocently and when she let’s go of his collar the slightest bit, she’s pushed against the door and his lips are on her neck. Obscene noises are drawn out of her slowly and her legs are almost giving out.

By the time they make it to the bed he’s got that hungry look again, and his mouth is all over. “Does this make you feel good, Darling? It certainly makes me feel good.”

She can only nod, and tug on his open shirt. He continues to speak but at least he’s moving against her. This, this is so much better than last time. This feels so, so good.

Except of course it can’t last because she didn’t lock the door. “(Y/N)! Calls the very drunk voice of Finnegan. She wants to scream because everything just freezes. Cohen lays back slightly, but at least he looks as annoyed as her. “Can we hide here?”

“Get out!” She yells through her teeth. “I swear if you don’t get out right now I’m going to kill every single one of you!”

The door quickly shuts and she doesn’t hear any more noise. She sinks back into the bed. “Well…I fixed the problem. C'mon.” By the end of the night, she hopes that he’ll stay at least a little while after.


End file.
